Saturday night we had some friends over and one of them introduced a topic for discussion having to do with food in order to avoid what was certain to be a big argument between two of the guests about the war in Afghanistan. Send troops? Don’t send troops?
“Let’s talk about your most memorable meal,” said Molly. “Who wants to go first?”
We heard about grilled porcini outside of Siena; truffles in Paris; and, lobster in Maine.
I must have been about eight months old and although I don’t have a conscious memory of it, the milk at my mother’s breast that afternoon was most remarkable. We were in her bedroom, overlooking the neighbor’s yard, with its tall pine, and snuggling with mom that wintry day, the milk flowing, has left an indelible impression. The milk–organic, fresh, seasonal, and from a free range mother–tasted the way milk is supposed to taste: warm, a hint of hazelnuts, and in the background a very slight garlic flavor from some gherkins mom had eaten earlier in the morning.
Nothing has tasted quite as good since.